


Dark Horse

by Katraa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, F/M, Gen, M/M, Murder, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katraa/pseuds/Katraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(au) Will Graham's condition causes dissociative personality disorder in which he copies the murders of the killers he puts behind bars, but better.  Hannibal, behind the scenes as the Chesapeake Ripper, ensures that Will continues his gradual decline into madness in order to see the true potential of the gifted mind.   (In which Will is actually the copycat killer and doesn't remember)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Horse

“When was the last time that you lost time, Will?”

Shoes shuffle against the fraying ends of the carpet that is oddly reminiscent of Will Graham’s mental state. His hands lace in his lap and he refuses to look over at the kind doctor. Instead, Will opts to drag the edge of his thumbnail against his other, watching the invisible friction as it wears it down, and down, and down. It’s similar to the situation he’s in right now, if he thinks about it. Frankly, everything in the office, if looked upon in the correct light, reminds Will of how unstable he feels—he is.

“Will?”

There it is again. Will looks up this time behind semi-foggy glasses – is the heat turned up or is the fever back? – and regards the doctor with a blank stare. Moments tick by before Will finally parts his lips to suck in a low, steadying breath.

“Are you asking me as my friend or my psychiatrist?”

That’s the thing with what Will has. Perhaps he’s always had the tendency to pry, to analyze, to poke and prod and get to the bottom of things, oftentimes with a quip of sarcasm, but ever since this fever has peaked and he’s lost more hours than he’s slept, it’s worsened.

“Which do you feel is the case right now?”

Will laughs almost hollowly. He doesn’t dignify that leading question with an answer and moves his hand up to push at the rim of his glasses, positioning them higher up on the bridge of his nose. He’s acutely aware of the fact that he needs to get them readjusted so they stop slipping. He’ll get to that when he doesn’t feel like he’s a burning, hot mess.

Will licks his lips and he thinks. Just thinks. Jack Crawford is beginning to suspect him, him, of all people of the copycat murders. There’s really nowhere to run and it shakes him to the core. He had been warned not to get too close, to keep his distance from these beautiful murderers . Because that’s what they are, they’re beautiful because their minds work in such elaborate, unique ways that makes it hard not to stop and stare. These beautiful psychopaths who bring originality to a whole new level and transfer art from the canvas onto the bodies they claim, for one reason or another. Will sometimes envies them, envies their design. He’s never been practically creative himself.

“You know, Dr. Lecter,” Will begins, voice a rugged tiredness, “if I didn’t know any better…” He trails off. It’s happening more often than not lately and that really ought to scare him. But everything scares him lately. “I’d say you were incapable of a straight answer.”

That draws a hearty chuckle from Hannibal – and really, why is everything comical with him lately? Is there something Will is missing? Has he been left out of the loop? Maybe that is simply the fever-induced paranoia talking.

“Will,” Hannibal says in a steady voice, “There is no point in lashing out at me. I am only trying to help.”

For some reason, those words soothe the ache that’s in Will’s knees. It’s a weird spot to be aching. It’s similar to heartache and yet at the same time it’s deadly different. He can’t remember the last time he used his legs so much his knees hurt, but then again, he’s been having difficulty remembering what he had for breakfast. 

“Are you going to ask me to draw a clock, Doctor? I know where I am right now, I know who I am.. I’m just… I’m just having issues figuring out the why.” Will bites down on his lip, nearly tearing through the flesh as his hands knot his lap, knuckles turning white.

“You arrived here a few hours ago, Will,” Hannibal says, a curious twinkle to his eyes. “You don’t remember?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I remembered.” There it is again, that humorous, desperate laugh as he shakes his head.

“Tell me the last thing you remember, then.”

Will closes his eyes and focuses. It’s been getting harder lately to dissociate himself with the beautiful minds he treks through. At one point, he used to think his ability was a gift sent from some deity to help him save lives. Lately, though, all it’s been doing is destroying his own. 

“I was feeding the dogs…” Will says, voice certain. “It was… It was around eight or so. I just got back from Jack’s—he invited me over. He was worried about me.”

“Worried?” Hannibal frowns, a dark look spreading over his face. As usual, Will’s eyes are closed from the world and he does not see it.

“Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t be when the person who is supposed to crack your cold case shows up in his pajamas to a crime scene?” Will mutters, licking the inside of his teeth afterward. If he tries really hard, he can imagine the metallic taste of blood. It sickens him to the core as his adrenaline pumps.

“So to answer my earlier question, the last time you lost time was in fact earlier this evening.” Hannibal does not sound surprised whatsoever and likely he knew the answer all along. He remains watching Will, stalking him like wounded prey—because that’s what he is, deep down.

“If I can remember it… then it won’t be lost,” Will reasons, struggling with the words as he racks his brain for the thread that will lead him further along his personal narrative. The thread that is his life has been frayed lately, just like that stupid carpet at his feet, and it’s been harder and harder to stay along it. He’s fallen astray more times than he cares to admit.

“Continue, Will.”

Will sucks in another breath, this one shakier, deeper. His voice is no longer certain as he speaks, “Winston was… his paw was hurt so I went to get something to bandage it. The dogs do that a lot—when they get hurt they limp back and sit at the edge of the porch and wait for me to get home. I felt bad… I should have gotten home sooner.”

Will’s guilt, his remorse, for his canine companions is interesting and Hannibal wonders if Will connects on a deeper level to the mutts than he does to the people around him. There’s a sickening jealousy that spikes when he wonders if Will’s dogs understand him more than Hannibal does.

“And after that?”

“I had a glass of water and my meds.” Will is nearly shaking. “Then I don’t… I must have went to bed.”

“Then how did you end up here? Did you walk? That’s quite a trek on foot, Will…”

“My car’s not out there?” Will panics and Hannibal glances out the window, confirming something he doesn’t need to. 

“No. Perhaps you parked elsewhere and walked the rest of the way. Your keys are on the table near the door,” Hannibal responds as he laces his hands together neatly, in complete contrast to how Will’s hands are ugly knotted. 

“Thank god….” Will shakes his head, visibly relieved. 

“Maybe it is too early to be thanking anyone quite yet…” Hannibal meets Will’s gaze, finally, and Will starts in his seat.

“The meds. Maybe they’re the cause.” Will seems oddly certain again and he looks to the ceiling. “I’ll get them switched—figure out something else to take. I’ll beat this. I won’t need anymore clocks.”

Hannibal sighs. “I did not want to tell you this, Will…”

Will’s heart crashes down, landing on the ground with a shattering noise. “Tell me what?”

“Your hands were covered in blood when you arrived.”

..... 

Jack Crawford had never been one for subtly, especially at crime scenes.

Will stares listlessly at the victim. This time around, it’s a young girl around the age of sixteen. Bright red, curly hair and vibrant green eyes—Irish or Scottish, Will thinks, as his gaze roams down to her ankle. She’s been put on display on the edge of a wheelbarrow, pitchfork jammed through her body, spikes protruding through the other side. Her eyes, wide with terror and agony, scream out to Will and he can barely hear his own thoughts over her’s—over her murderer’s. That beautiful bastard is likely gloating over his kill, and Will wonders what the design of this one is. He can’t pluck it out from the massive array of details at first and he stutters, moving closer to the cadaver before Jack holds out an arm and stops him.

“Don’t get too close,” Jack says sternly, not wanting Will to contaminate the scene. Where oh where did he hear that phrase before?

“My God, Jack….” Will wants to vomit, get sick, but he won’t. He won’t further decimate this poor girl’s body. He wants to get into the mind of the killer, track him down and put him away, but he can’t stomach it right now.

He feel s feverish again.

Antlers appear out of her cranium, stretching up towards the heavens, tips covered in a deep crimson. It’s blood, Will can smell it. The world around him is gone and he’s standing there alone, staring down at the creature that’s been haunting him ever since Hobbs. It’s not the same, though, not fully transformed into that cruel stag. Instead, it’s still part human, still has distinguishable eyes and limbs, and that’s what makes it even more terrifying.

__

“See? You see?” she mouths, the words turning into a shrill scream followed by a horrendous screech. 

There’s ticking. A clock. There’s a metallic clamoring of a knife falling somewhere.

He’s tired of this.

Will’s hands fly up to hold his head and he’s being pulled back to reality by the hard hand of Jack. Except it’s not just Jack, it’s Alana, too, and she’s shooting Crawford the dirtiest glare a pretty girl like her can muster.

‘Can’t you see you’re breaking him?’ Will imagines her to be saying, when in reality, she’s steering him away from the crime scene silently.

When they’re alone, back near the cars, she pulls his hands away from his hair and whispers, “What did you see?”

_Myself. I saw myself._

..... 

Hannibal sits alone at his desk, fingers touching the scalpel with a smile.

His mongoose is falling, falling, and it’s such a pretty, dark demise. His mongoose isn’t even aware of the evil deeds he has done, or that he visits the good doctor every evening he commits such acts. Hannibal suspects Will will be by soon—perhaps a day or two—when he imitates the red-haired girl’s murder. They’re calling the murderer the Angry Farmer. Such a trite, boring name, Hannibal thinks as he muses to himself, leaning back.

He’s killed enough to know what names are good and what are not. After all, he’s the Chesapeake Ripper, and it’s such a fitting little name.

His Mongoose will need a more fitting one than, ‘The CopyCat Killer’ when it all surfaces.

He ponders, ‘The Dark Horse.


End file.
